Lost Poem

Poetry echos throughout night
Lines come to fast to form
A poem worthy to put in place
It leaves me speechless
Trying to catch up
I fall behind to tired
Over come with exhaustion
To write the words down


A Poet’s Soul

A poet’s soul burns for words to bubble up
Overflow onto a blank page
Unwind each line from a rolled ball of yarn
That has been tucked away for later use
A poet’s poem forms under careful care
Cradled like a baby until finish,
It takes off to new places
But comes back when called;
A poet revises it,
Makes it stronger than ever
Poet smiles again
Watching revised version takes to skies

I Am A Poet [Revision]

I am a poet,
My words flow through my pen.
The words dance across the page,
In a harmonic and rhythmic way
As beats in a line of music.

I am a poet,
Deep in thought and writing.
I think of poems no one else can.
Giving life to each and every one
They jump out upon the page.

I am a poet,
My writing I give to thee.
I will write about nature and life.
I will also write about my love to thee
For there is no end in writing for me.

I am a poet.
I write poems for all to see.

Ode To Colors and Other Projects

I have another book in proofreading stage that will be coming soon. The book is called Ode To Colors. This collection has poems about colors, mentioning colors and anything else related to colors. I am hoping to get the book out in October. Once its publish I will post the links.

Also I have other projects in the pipeline. There will be another volume of Collection of Dog Poetry and 30 Poems In 30 Days: April Poetry Challenge. The next one will take awhile to finish which will be about 100 dog haiku poems on what a dog would poem about in haiku form. I am still writing poems about this one and haven’t reached 100 yet. One last project is going be more a book on my take on writing poetry with prompt ideas and more. That one is take a little bit longer to work on. I will follow up with more updates later.

From Reading A Book

Sometimes I say I’m going to write a novel–
even though I can’t write a novel– just because it’s great
to be on the top of the bestseller charts. I’ve always thought so, ever since

I read novels myself which takes me to far off places
filled with unlimited possibilities of what could happen.
Today I was walking my dog, hoping an idea would wander

though my mind making me break into a smile. I bought
notebook and pen, but it has lain undisturbed gathering
dust on the floor by the bed. I thought I would get my

best ideas at night, because late in evenings my
brain is full of ideas bombarding me– remembering notebook,
I could try writing but, too tired to pick it up

hoping I would remember it the next morning–
only to let it slip though my fingers. I read more
hoping one of these days I could write like this but

knowing I would have to be content in imaging,
the stories in my head. Anyone one of these stories
could one day be mine at the top of the list.

Next Best Work

Fingers fly upon the keyword;
One letter at a time tapped out
Till they come together to make–
Words then sentences upon the page
To form what the next great story;
The next great poem to be read out loud.
Tap, tap, tap; the fingers move
Like a well oil machine
That knows what to bring together
The next best work of writing.